


Boxers and Knee-Highs

by Mandibles



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Magic, Sexswap, Sexual exploration, magically sexswapped!Jackson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:20:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets of magically sexswapped!Jackson.</p><p>UPDATE: Jackson/Lydia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been spewing my sexswapped!Jackson feels all over my Tumblr, so I thought I'd share. No cohesive story. Just stuff.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jackson + Derek + Isaac, gen

For some inane reason, “Wow,” is the first coherent word that leaves Derek’s mouth when Jackson stumbles through the door, supported by a red-faced Isaac.

He can’t say what that first ‘wow’ is for—it could be Jackson’s state of undress, boxers and Isaac’s grey hoodie pulled around him, or Jackson’s fine impression of Bambi with his knees knocking together, or the thick layer of glitter that coats the two of them from hair to foot. The ‘wow’ had nothing to do with the fact that Jackson has  _tits_  of all things, because that doesn’t hit Derek until a split second later when Jackson straightens with a wince and  _they_  slip free from the safety of the unzipped hoodie and, “Oh.  _Wow_.”

Isaac sputters and Jackson elbows him away to wrap tight arms around his breasts, his own face turning dark with a blush. “Shut up,” he spits, voice a slightly higher pitch but more annoyed than distressed. And, that’s when Derek notices the differences, the slenderness of Jackson’s toned legs and the softer curve of his jawline and the newfound curves of Jackson’s body where the hoodie pulls taut around his waist, his hips.

Derek can only stare, dumbfounded, into the cleavage above Jackson’s folded arms. Then, he fucking  _laughs_ , doubles over and fucking shits himself with laughter.

“Shut up!” Jackson whines.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles/Jackson
> 
> Warnings: Gender dysphoria

“No,” Jackson spits before Stiles can even reach into the plastic bag in his hand.

He sits on the edge of Stiles’ bed, hands knotted tightly in his lap, and his face pitches into scowl. And it’s strange just how familiar the look is—how  _Jackson_  it is—because, nothing else about Jackson is remotely the same. His jawline is softer, his shoulders less broad and round, and he’s in a lacy tank top— _Lydia’s_  lacy tank top, wow—that does nothing to hide the firm swell of his breasts or the peak of his nipples against the material.

Which is why Stiles stands here like an ass with a bag full of bras after an embarrassing as fuck visit to Wal-Mart. And also, god, what a fucking babe, because really.

“Fuck no,” Jackson continues, face pinching tighter. “Fuck you, fuck Derek, and fuck all of them. Just—” His voice cracks and it would’ve been funny if Stiles wasn’t so fucking hard. “No.”

Stiles scrubs at his face. “Come on, Jackson, don’t—”

“No.”

“You need to—”

“No.”

“Jackson!”

“No!”

The bag hits the carpet and, welp, there’s no hiding it now. His jeans do nothing to mask his fucking dick, pushing hard against the placket of his jeans. “Dude, you can’t just have them, like, hanging out!”

Jackson shoots to his feet and perches his hands on his hips, a move that’s all Lydia. It doesn’t help that Jackson’s tits move with him. “You just need to stop fucking staring, you perv!”

“It’s kinda hard when they’re all …” Stiles gestures—flails, really—at Jackson’s chest.

“Then, that’s your fucking problem!” Jackson snarls, stomping past him. Stiles catches his arm and Jackson, unable to leap away like wants to, thumps an aggravated hand against Stiles’ chest instead. “Fuck off!”

Stiles doesn’t. “Look, we’re all just trying to help you.”

“I don’t want  _help_ ,” hisses Jackson. “I want my  _dick_. And I want to get rid of—of—” He gropes himself with his free hand. “—these. I don’t want to sit through fucking girl sex ed. I don’t want to think about getting pregnant. I don’t want to have a fucking  _period_. I—” Jackson’s voice cracks again, this time with hysteria, with a sob. “I don’t want this. I don’t—”

His hand scrapes at Stiles’ hoodie and, “Fuck,  _Jackson_ ,” Stiles quickly completes the embrace, dragging Jackson into his arms. Jackson was always shorter than him, but more so now that he’s a girl. He buries his face into Stiles’ chest to sob and Stiles clutches at his back, at the soft material of his tank top.

After Jackson had cried his fill and ducked out of Stiles’ window with red-rimmed eyes, Stiles wished he could say he was able to ignore the firm press of Jackson’s breasts against him and that his hand didn’t stray further down to the small of his back and that he’d done his bit to be careful and aware and understanding of Jackson’s situation.

But then he looks down at the bulge in his jeans, still standing strong, and realizes that, fuck, he’s a fucking  _asshole_.

“Fuck.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott/Jackson

Jackson likes Scott. He likes him because when Scott answers the door, his eyes don’t beeline right for Jackson’s chest. Scott’s a true fucking gentleman and never in his seventeen years of life did Jackson think he’d ever care about something like that. He’d say the vagina is the one talking, but he can see Lydia’s tight scowl in his mind, so he pushes the thought away.

“Oh, hey Jackson,” Scott says casually and, ugh, his heart doesn’t skip in the slightest. Scott’s not putting up some nonchalant front like  _some_  people— (Stilinski. Derek. Lahey, too, when he’s not just staring slack-jawed at him. Honestly, Peter has more restraint than the lot of them.) It still startles Jackson sometimes just how honestly nice McCall is. “Is something up?”

Jackson rolls his shoulders. “Not really. I just—” He falters a bit, eyes straying; when they focus back to Scott’s face, his eyebrows are pinched in concern. “Can I come in? It’s not something I want to talk about on your doorstep.”

Scott blinks at him a moment more before nodding and opening the door further. Jackson brushes past him and plops onto Scott’s couch. He remembers to cross his legs like Lydia encourages him too late for the move to be natural, so he settles for spreading his legs wide if only to spite her.

“I have a proposition for you,” Jackson says as Scott approaches a little awkwardly.

“A proposition.”

“Yeah, I—” The tang of anxiety sours Jackson’s tongue and he isn’t surprised that it’s his own. He rubs his hands down his thighs, tries to smooth away the nervous bounce of his legs. Scott’s eyes flick down to the movement for a split second and an increasingly familiar heat starts to pool in Jackson’s stomach. “I mean, I—I kind of—you know— _Fuck_.”

Scott moves closer, enough so that Jackson has to crane his head up to look at him, and that’s only making the growing thunder of his heartbeat, the faint curl of arousal between his legs a trillion times worse. Jackson snaps his knees together and his cunt fucking  _clenches_  without his consent.

And, damn it, Scott just watches him with no fucking  _clue_.

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong, man?” he asks, all concern and good, good, good intentions. “You’re acting kind of weird. Should I call Der—”

“ _No_ ,” Jackson spits more lethally than he intended. At Scott’s pitched eyebrows, he blurts, “You and Allison are still over, right?”

That has Scott’s stance shifting, arms folding, and his expression shuttering. “I-I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

Jackson rolls his eyes. “Just answer the question, McCall.”

“Uh, no. No, I’m not answering that.”

“Oh come on, it’s been like, what, a month already?”

“Wha—No, it’s—What’s it to you?” Scott snarls, suddenly vicious. Instead of sinking back into cushions, the fear jumping in Jackson’s chest has him rubbing his thighs together and ever so slightly rolling his hips for the sweet burn of arousal. _Fuck_ , who knew chicks could get like this?

Jackson sighs, lets his eyes flutter shut. “I just— _Look_ McCall, I’ve been through a lot of shit this summer, so I get a free pass at being a little weird for a single fucking moment, okay?” There’s silence, but when Jackson opens his eyes, Scott visibly relaxes, nods slowly. Jackson sucks in a breath and shifts. “So—So, if I say some shit—like, if I said that I-I want you to  _fuck_  me, you can’t—you can’t take it too seriously, okay? No freaking out.”

Scott’s face scrunches in confusion as the words tumble around in his head, and Jackson almost laughs at how long it takes to register. But then, realization hits Scott and he gawks, eyes round and jaw slack.

“Wait. Wait, what?  _What_?”

“No freaking out.”

“No freaking—” The sentence sputters into nothing. “But you just said—”

“I said not to take it seriously,” Jackson says impatiently, clutching at the bottom of his hoodie before he blurts, “But  _god_ , fuck, McCall, I wouldn’t mind if you took it a little seriously.”

Scott’s nostrils flare and his arms drop at his sides, his face turns ruddy. “Wha—Is this why you were asking about Allison? Is this the proposition?”

“No, I actually give a shit about your stupid Romeo and Juliet drama—Of course it is, you dumbass!” Jackson hisses, practically clawing through his hoodie now.

“So—So you really want me to—”

“Yes.”

“Like right now?”

“Yes.”

They stare at each other.

Scott bites his lip. “ _Seriously_?”

“Forget it!” Jackson bursts, already on steady feet and ready to plow through Scott for the door. Female or not, he could still take McCall in this body. “I’m just going to get the fuck out of here and you’re going to pretend this didn’t happen, capiche—”

His jaw snaps shut when Scott looms over him suddenly, quietly intimidating rather than frightening. It startles a noise out of Jackson and Scott inhales deeply, takes in the scent of Jackson’s arousal. If only Jackson could get a hand into his jeans or—or if he could just grind against something, maybe McCall’s thigh, he’d just be fucking dandy.

“Why me?”

Jackson dumbly bats eyelashes at the question. “Huh?”

Scott sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “Why are you asking me for—you know—this? Why not Lydia or Derek or, hell, Stiles? Why me?” he repeats.

“Because I trust you,” says Jackson without realizing and slowly adds at Scott’s dumbfounded stare, “And, I’m curious. I’m curious about—about  _things_ , and I trust you to help me.”

Jackson barely makes it through the last sentence before Scott touches him. Tentative fingers run up the sleeves of Jackson’s hoodie, over the shoulders, up his neck, before hands—god, they seem so huge—cup his cheeks. Scott pushes forward and Jackson pushes too until his breasts press against Scott’s chest. They’re just so close and anxious electricity crackles under Jackson’s skin.

“Okay,” Scott says, thumbs brushing sharp cheekbones. “Okay, yeah, I can—yeah.”

Jackson snorts, “Suave,” but the word is quickly lapped up by Scott’s tongue. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek/Jackson
> 
> As we can see from this and the Scackson one, I seem to have some kind of weird formula for this: sexswapped!Jackson asks for sex, askee is startled, Jackson almost storms off, askee stops him and deposits corny line of his or her choosing. Yeah. I’m sorry ‘bout that. I wrote this in the middle of Genetics.
> 
> (Also, I shall reply to comments once I return from con.)

What people don’t realize about Derek is that, for all intents and purposes, he’s human. When he scrapes against one of the splintered walls of his burnt-out home, his arm still comes away sore and red with blood. (Sure, it heals in a second’s time, but that doesn’t make it hurt _less_.) He can also get winded after long runs and tends to get hungry after them as well. And, wonder of wonders, after he eats, he often needs to shit somewhere along the line, and, no, he doesn’t think it smells like roses.

Most importantly, though, when he comes face-to-face with a pretty, pretty young woman, he’s human enough to be attracted to said young woman, even a little bit aroused. And now, after a run-in with a drove of snaggle-toothed, sparkly pixies, Jackson fits that bill to a T. Especially when he’s stomping into Derek’s new flat from the morning sun after another full moon.

Jackson’s hair has gotten long in the past few months since the fairy fiasco. It suits him, Derek thinks, suits this strange new body of his. Brown hair, ruffled from the night and tangled with leaves, frames his face nicely, licks of it curling over his cheekbones and jaw. And, well, Derek might be staring. Jackson’s pinched scowl tells him so, though that might just be his face.

“What?” Jackson says, combing fingers through his hair. His shirt—borrowed from Allison by the faint traces of Argent—is dark with sweet sweat at the pits, the collar, and the center of the shirt where his cleavage lies.

Derek inhales deeply, shrugs. “Nothing.”

Jackson eyes him darkly for a moment more before he brushes past him with a snort, already tugging his shirt over his head. Derek would be lying if he said he didn’t stare after him, throat catching just a bit at the rolling of Jackson’s shoulder blades and the deft way Jackson’s fingers unhook his bra. Derek thinks about it sometimes, about crowding Jackson—always shorter than him, but so much so now—into a corner, tugging off that bra and taking the soft weight of his breasts into his hands or maybe curling his fingers into Jackson’s boxers and sliding them down over his strong thighs, down his knees.

Derek thinks about dropping to his knees and burying his nose in the curls of Jackson’s pubic hair, the wet folds of his pussy. He imagines Jackson’s thighs hugging his face, his hands clawing Derek’s hair, and— _no_ , these are _not_ good thoughts to have about an under-aged boy—now girl. But moments like this, when Jackson barrels in all sweat and power and blood and anger, don’t make it easy for Derek to shove the thoughts away.

Jackson disappears into a room, straps of his bra hanging free and the muscled column of his back pale and gorgeous, but not before he casts a final, irritated scowl over his shoulder.

It’s been like this for months, Derek caught in this strange dance of wanting to stare and stare and stare at Jackson while not wanting to be caught staring. He’s thankful, though, that he’s not the only one staring: Isaac watches behind fingers of fake disinterest and, for the first week, Stiles openly gaped whenever Jackson stretched or bent or fought. Derek even caught Scott’s stare straying, following Jackson’s ass as he stormed off after another red-faced, wolfed-out tantrum. (Peter stares, too, but he’s a creeper on a good day, so it goes without saying.) Still, this ‘gratitude’ or whatever teeters the line into ‘green-eyed jealousy’ too dangerously to be comfortable.

Derek doesn’t care to make a habit of imagining Jackson with other people. When he returns to the flat and bursts into his bedroom after another pointless row with Scott, he finds he doesn’t have to.

Derek blinks down at the foil packet Jackson pins to his chest. When he glances back up, Jackson’s scarlet from ear tip to ear tip, dressed in nothing but shorts, a t-shirt, and _no bra_ , but his glare remains firm, all embarrassment and righteous fury.

“Jackson—”

“You want to fuck me, don’t you?” Jackson blurts, pushing the condom further into Derek’s chest. “Let’s stop dicking around and get it over with, alright?”

Derek’s eyebrows pitch up. “Wait, you want me to—”

“Would I be asking if I didn’t? And, well, yeah.” Jackson casts his eyes away. “Yeah, I kinda do.” The condom drags down to Derek’s stomach and just when Jackson’s about to take it away, Derek grabs his hand, wrestles the condom from his fingers.

“Seriously, you want this?”

“ _Yes_ , dammit,” Jackson bites like it burns him, wolf blue eyes coming full force as he digs his fingers into his— _Lydia’s_ —worn t-shirt. “So can we just get this done and over with already?”

Derek stares hard at Jackson, twirling the condom in his fingers, and Jackson stares back, both fierce and a little lost. As the cold realization that he’d just made a complete fool of himself washes over Jackson’s face and he starts to turn away, Derek has Jackson’s jaw in a bruising grip and kisses him without realizing, the two of them staggering further into the room from the force of it. Jackson regains his footing in no time, clawing at Derek’s sides, slicing his Henley into strips and drawing red, red blood.

When Jackson breaks the kiss for air, their lips still touching, Derek figures this is when he should say something important, if not something like, “I love you,” then something more on the lines of, “I’ve wanted this for so long,” or, “God, you’re beautiful.” What comes tumbling out of his mouth is:

“Have you gotten head yet? You know, as a girl?”

Wow, smooth.

Jackson, though, looks at him in awe and shakes his head.

“ _Good_ ,” Derek breathes before he grabs Jackson’s thighs and deposits him onto the bed.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Peter/Jackson. Takes place some time after Scott but before Derek?

Jackson is all red lips and white-knuckled rage when Peter corners him, but he doesn’t stop Peter from drawing in close and resting heavy hands on his hips. There’s no stopping the toothy grin that splits Peter’s face at his luck, but he knows enough not to push too far past his boundaries. Just yet, at least. It would be a shame to let this—this fine young lady Jackson’s become—to slip between his fingers just because he was a little impatient.

And when Peter says fine young lady, he means  _fine_. Jackson’s looks were always enough to make Peter drop what he was doing if only just to stare, but as a woman the cheekbones, the lips, the jaw make him salivate, a wolf over meat. He can’t even pin a number on how many times he’s imagined doing just this, getting a firm hand on Jackson with no intentions of letting go until he’s full and sated. Especially when Jackson’s hyped up and furious like this, jaw tight and muscles tight and spines tight like a snake set to spring.

“You’re fucking sick,” spits Jackson without preamble and, well, no real evidence to the accusation either.

Still, a chuckle rumbles from Peter as he buries his nose into Jackson’s throat. “Then fight me,” he says, curling a lick around Jackson’s jawline. There’s a split moment when Jackson’s eyes go wild, when Peter thinks Jackson might take him up on his offer, but nothing more than strangled frustration comes from it in the end.

So when Peter presses a victorious kiss to the corner of Jackson’s mouth, Jackson stiffly returns it and furthers it, parting his lips. He tastes just as Peter imagined he would: all youth and warmth and hate and sex. He tightens his grip, crushes Jackson to him so he can delve further, deeper, relishing the swell of breasts against his chest.  Jackson simply goes with the movement, claws the back of Peter’s shirt.  

“Fuck,” Jackson blurts, their lips still crushed together. “Jesus fuck.  _Fuck_!” he finishes in a squeal when Peter slips a hand into Jackson’s ill-fitting jeans. His hips jut forward, roll into the curve of Peter’s palm.

Peter purrs against Jackson’s cheek. No panties, no boxers, no anything. He can’t say that he’s surprised.

It’s hotter here, liquid fire licking at his fingers as they venture further and further back through coarse curls to the damp seam of Jackson’s cunt. He rolls his thumb at his clit and Jackson whimpers, eyes fluttering shut, and rocks against Peter’s hand. “Fuck—Peter—”

“Have you touched yourself like this since you changed?” Peter wonders aloud, his teeth finding Jackson’s ear. He expects Jackson’s tight, jerky nod, but his curiosity is far from sated. “Has someone else touched you?”

That doesn’t get an answer right away. Jackson instead pants between them, jaw going slack, and reaches a hand down to encourage Peter’s between his legs.  Peter punches a sweet, girlish grunt from him, though, when he pushes at his clit hard.

“Am I your first man, Jackson?” singsongs Peter.

A dark flush creeps up from the neckline of Jackson’s t-shirt. He ducks his head. “No.”

“No?”

“ _Fuck_ —no.”

Oh. Peter’s brows shoot up. “Who?”

“Scott,” Jackson sighs after a moment and oh.  _Oh_. Well.

Luckily Peter doesn’t mind coming in second place. He’s always had a dangerous infatuation with silver.

Peter’s grin returns, all teeth. He curls a finger at Jackson’s entrance, wet and ready from the slick that’s already soaking through Jackson’s jeans. “Oh, he must have been so sweet to you, pup. He worshipped you, didn’t he?”

He doesn’t bother waiting for a response. He just eases his finger inside, slow slow slow, and Jackson sighs again, his head nudging up under Peter’s chin, hair soft now that he doesn’t use mousse or anything. He’s fiery inside, hot and wet and beyond perfect for Peter’s cock. Jackson’s cunt squeezes around his finger hungrily; he crooks it, rolls his thumb, and Jackson hums pleasantly, ruts into his hand.

“I’m afraid I won’t be as nice,” Peter promises too low for Jackson to hear. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jackson/Lydia. Jackson doesn't know how to clitoris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written in my iPhone since my laptop is broken, so there are probably mistakes. Warning you now.

“You’re getting a fucking kick out of this, aren’t you?”

Lydia ignores him at first, clearly more interested in the–the lacy and ruffled and girly things she lays one by one on her bedspread. It’s not until she plucks the last thing from her nearly bottomless Macy’s bag and displays it by the tips of her fingers–a g-string, a fucking g-string meant for  _him_ –that she even looks up, just spots Jackson worrying at a nail.

Caught, Jackson’s hands fly back to his lap. But because he’s slowly but surely losing his ability to give a fuck, he still spits out the crescent of nail from between his teeth and finds wicked joy in the way Lydia’s eyes turn lethal.

“I’m not wearing that,” he says instead of laughing in her face.

Her brows knit, for just a moment. Then it disappears, replaced by the mattress sighing with her as she sits.

“You’re upset,” she says after moment and it’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard.

“Yes,” he hisses, “ _Yes_ , I’m fucking upset. I’m upset because when I woke up this morning I still had these–” Jackson gestures to his chest. “–and whatever the fuck  _this_  shit is.” He gestures to his crotch and Lydia does nothing to hide her snort.

“You know, your dick is not so different from your clit.”

Jackson scoffs. “Yeah, actually, it is. And it’s not mine.”

Lydia’s cackle is unnerving. “Oh, sorry, are you renting it?”

“Pretty fucking much!” Jackson shouts over Lydia’s laughter. “Once I find a way to fix this, I won’t have to bother trying to figure this shit out.”

Lydia rolls her eyes and crawls up the bed towards him. “No wonder you’re such a shitty lay.”

“ _What_ –” Lydia presses a finger to his lips.

“Shh,” she whispers, so close Jackson can smell her lipgloss. Her lips glisten with it in the light, and for a fleeting, mad second, Jackson wonders what it might look on him. He’s seen himself in the mirror of course, and he knows he makes a damn gorgeous girl. So, maybe he could try to work with it, just for a while–

No. No no no no no. Fuck no.

Lydia’s hand jerks him from the scary thoughts, creeps up his thigh.

“I’ll help you,” she says.

“Help me what?” Jackson croaks back, heart leaping to his throat.

“Help you find your clitoris, of course.”

And them she smiles–really  _smiles_ –and it’s brilliant how her face lights up and her curls bounces as she laughs.

His stomach flutters for her, his heart lurches, but instead of sonnets, what leaves his mouth is, “It’s not  _mine_.”


End file.
